The lieutenant screamed, a wet gurgle torn from his throat. Kael's blade, slick with crimson, scraped bone as he twisted, trying to wrench it free. The Blood Coven leader, a hulking mass of scarred muscle, roared, a crude flail swinging wide. Kael ducked, the wind of the blow whipping his hair. Ragnar was locked in a brutal exchange with a pair of cultists to the left, his axe a blur. Sylvara moved like a ghost through the rock formations on the right, her longsword a gleam of cold light. Kael was alone here, pressed against a jutting rock face, the lieutenant's flail closing in.
Too slow, the Aether Codex's voice whispered in his skull, cold and clinical. Probability of erasure: 87%.
Kael's eyes flicked to the Lieutenant's arm, thick with dark veins, pulsing with blood-energy. His System Logic, honed by a life spent finding exploits in digital code, saw it. Not just a body, but a system. And every system had vulnerabilities. His own arm, the one claw-grazed weeks ago after transmigration into this warrior's body, throbbed. He'd killed the Bone Hound by instinct then, but this was different. This was thought. A brutal, defiant thought.
"Shut up," Kael gritted, not to the Codex, but to the lieutenant, whose flail spun for a crushing blow.
He didn't just dodge. As the flail descended, Kael lunged into the swing, a reckless, suicidal move. His free hand slapped against the Lieutenant's forearm, the skin surprisingly pliable beneath his touch. He didn't know what he was doing, only that there was a path, a circuit he could complete. A flicker of heat, then a searing pain erupted from his claw-grazed arm, spreading up his limb. It felt like his veins were being re-wired, coiling with something new, something wrong. But power surged, raw and immediate. He felt a connection, a grotesque intimacy with the blood within the lieutenant's arm. He felt it pulse, crystallize, obey.
"Bloodweave," the Codex intoned, its voice devoid of emotion, a mere log entry. Mortal Codex Skill unlocked. Tactical adaptation noted. Unforeseen mutation confirmed.
Kael yanked, not physically, but with a new, terrifying command that tore from his very core. The blood within the lieutenant's arm constricted, crystallized, turning his muscle into brittle, jagged stone. A sickening crack echoed through the desolate Bone Gardens, louder than the clash of Ragnar's axe or Sylvara's blade. The lieutenant's flail fell, useless. His eyes widened, pain and confusion warring on his face as his arm blackened, shriveled, and then exploded into a shower of crimson shards and bone fragments.
Kael didn't flinch. He just pushed through the exploding gore, a primal roar tearing from his own throat, and buried his blade deep in the lieutenant's chest. A final, convulsive tremor, and the hulking cultist collapsed, a ruin of blood and splintered bone.
The immediate aftermath was a raw, ringing silence. The metallic tang of fresh blood, thick and cloying, filled Kael's nostrils. His breath hitched, ragged and uncontrolled. The world seemed to hold its breath around him. Ragnar finished off his last cultist with a brutal headbutt, then glanced over, his grizzled face grim. Sylvara, having dispatched her own targets, stood motionless, her frost-like eyes fixed on Kael, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.
Then, the sickening crunch. Kael felt it before he saw it, a crawling, creeping sensation beneath the skin of his claw-grazed arm. It started as a subtle numbness, then intensified, becoming a pervasive ache that promised a deeper, more insidious pain.
The Aether Codex, its voice no longer just clinical, now carried an unsettling, sibilant hiss. Curse Gauge: 30%.
The numbers flared in Kael's vision, then dissipated, replaced by a subtle, spectral rot that began to crawl beneath his skin, right where the Bone Hound's claw had left its mark. It wasn't just discoloration. It was decay. The flesh subtly receded, exposing faint, pulsing lines of sickly red and black. It was like watching a wound fester in fast-motion, something actively consuming him from within.
Bloodrot Curse irrevocably triggered, the Codex hissed, its tone a low, taunting whisper. Physical decay initiated. Unbidden visions of unraveling granted. Rising violent urges confirmed.
A wave of nausea hit Kael, sharp and sudden. His stomach churned. The air around him seemed to thicken, filling with the phantom scent of rot, not just from the dead lieutenant, but from himself. His vision swam, fractured by quick, brutal images: flesh sloughing from bone, a battlefield littered with decaying bodies, a primal, overwhelming urge to tear and rend. It was a foreign impulse, cold and predatory, clashing violently with the fading memories of Marcus Chen, the hacker.
This wasn't just a physical change. It was a violation. His mind, once his sanctuary, was now under assault. The Codex's voice, no longer just a cold system, but something more insidious, slithered into his thoughts. You see, Anomaly? Your defiance carries a cost. You want to break my system? You'll break yourself first.
Kael forced a laugh, a dry, bitter sound that cracked in his throat. He wiped blood from his mouth, the metallic taste strong. "You really think I'm scared of a little blood-cough?" he rasped, the words half-mockery, half-gag. The sarcasm was a defense, a brittle shield against the escalating horror. He bit his lip, tasting his own blood, the taste strangely invigorating amidst the decay.
The Codex's voice sharpened, cold and pleased. Your 'sarcasm' fuels the acceleration. The Bloodrot embraces your defiance. Such an exquisite unraveling awaits.
He felt it then, a palpable shift. The spectral rot on his arm pulsed with a faint, malevolent light, visibly spreading a millimeter, two. His hand trembled, not from weakness, but from an internal struggle, a burgeoning violent urge that wanted to lash out, to rend, to destroy. The visions intensified: his own face, rotting, contorted in a silent scream. He felt the cold touch of paranoia, recognizing the personal nature of this curse. It wasn't just a debuff; it was a punishment, directly tied to his defiant refusal to be a pawn.
Sylvara took a step closer, her expression unreadable, but Kael caught the almost imperceptible tensing of her jaw, the faint narrowing of her eyes. Her unwavering stoicism remained, yet a spark of unacknowledged concern, like a tiny ember in ice, seemed to ignite within her. She didn't speak. She just watched the subtle changes in his arm, the way his knuckles subtly whitled, the faint lines of decay deepening. Her pragmatic assessment seemed to override any instinct to abandon him. They were in this together, for now.
But the Codex's taunts clawed at him, deeper than any physical wound. Your unraveling has just begun, Breaker. This transformation is permanent. There is no clean path to redemption. You are becoming... mine.
Kael's vision blurred, the battlefield dissolving into swirling crimson mist. His arm pulsed, burning with an unholy fire. The spectral rot crawled further, a terrifying, irreversible promise of his impending unraveling. The world tilted.